She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. But those days are over—quite over. He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. Stanley’s pace slackened. He came in with his hands in his trousers pockets and a general air of depression in his bearing. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. “And yet in a very few weeks I shall have done with it all. ‘Your niece, ma’am.
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